The Cursed Hand
by Dulcidyne
Summary: The youngest Trevelyan daughter is cursed...or so they tell it in Ostwick. But Captain Cullen Rutherford doesn't believe in fairytale curses and he's determined to get to the bottom of Ostwick's demon problem before it consumes the city and the rest of Thedas whole. (Edwardian Thedas AU)
1. The Soldier and the Seeker

A/N: I'm very sorry, it has been a while since I've posted on this website, and I was rushing to do it before an appointment. I not only had a duplicate chapter but a chapter of nonsense formating. Took the messed up chapters down and will repost them correctly. So sorry again!

_The first time the girl summoned the demons, she was barely a week past the fateful day when she received both her name and her curse, and until that night her parents hadn't taken the old woman very seriously at all._

* * *

He flickered the lid of the pocketwatch and watched the hand tick further past 12 between flashes of gold. The train had arrived in the station on the hour exactly and it wasn't like his sister to be late. Certainly not Mia with the precisely folded letters free of ink splotches and regularly dated at weekly intervals-whether or not they made their way to him on time was another thing entirely. His own correspondence was much less diligent, but he had been sure to mail the last announcing his arrival to South Reach. Frowning, he tucked the watch back into the khaki uniform pocket and tried to ignore the clucking whispers of the two matrons with nothing better to do than gossip while their driver loaded the car with mountains of luggage.

"Rather dashing in person...do you think he would come to tea? Kitty could certainly make the most of it."

Now that was a tone he had come too passing familiar with in the last few weeks. Andraste preserve him from matchmaking mothers. Forgetting himself, he muttered that epithet aloud. Loudly enough that the aging socialites let out a pair of offended gasps and whirled around in a flurry of furious whispers, sparing him at last.

But he was to have no peace, apparently, as a feminine voice at his other side asked almost immediately after, "Captain Rutherford?"

Feeling sufficiently henpecked by the opposite sex, Cullen huffed, "I...yes, but please, the title is completely unnecessary. A technicality at this point.."

The damn war had ended a year ago after all. But he didn't add that and was glad he didn't when he looked up at the woman who had approached him. No fluttering maiden extending an invitation for afternoon tea, this one.

She was dressed impeccably in a suit of tailored burgundy wool that obviously cost a pretty sum, even to his untrained eye. The crisp white collar emphasized the decisive jut of her scarred chin as she looked down at him with cool regard. Glittering at her lapel was a jeweled pin depicting an all-seeing eye.

"As you like." she finally replied, "I have something to discuss with you. Perhaps a cup of tea at the cafe while you wait for your sister?

He did not ask how an agent of the Seekers knew who he was waiting for. Neither did he ask if her organization had a hand in whatever delayed Mia because he already knew it to be true. Instead, he found himself smiling at the sheer lunacy of it. An invitation to tea after all. He did not expect to ever receive one from a woman carrying not one but two handguns, the bulk of which were cleverly disguised by the cut of her suit. Sobering, he reigned in the perverse twist of humor still lingering at the corner of his scarred lip.

"My sister is safe?" he asked.

The question affronted, if the curl of her lip was any evidence,"Of course. I'm not here to force your cooperation."

"Well then, I suppose I wouldn't mind taking refreshment in the meanwhile."

How else was he supposed to get to the bottom of what the Seekers of Truth wanted with him?

The cafe was full of travellers, a din of hurried conversations. Not a few men in khaki, looking hollowed out and jumpy with every clatter of a cup against a china saucer. Cullen grimaced in empathy, drawing a finger over the cool metal filagree of the watch tucked in his pocket. The Seeker led them to a small table by the pane of glass outlooking the rest of the station. It was somehow secluded from the press of feathered hats and bustling waitstaff and as he sat down, he noted that the noise was substantially lower through some miracle of acoustics.

After they ordered their tea, or coffee in his case, she reached into the inside of the faintly pinstriped jacket and produced a small, stoppered bottle the size of his thumb. Inside tumbled two pale pink tablets.

"Am I right to assume this looks familiar?" she asked, handing the bottle over for him to inspect closer. He didn't need to but he took it from her anyway. For a moment, he could almost smell the ethyl ether mingled in with the buttery toast and jam from the next table over. His stomach turned and as if on cue, the server arrived with their drinks. Afternoon light caught on the silver carafe and the aroma of the coffee wafting out clung in a bitter film on his tongue. Taking a sip of his water to quell the seething turn of his lost appetite, Cullen set the bottle back down between them.

"Yes." he replied tersely.

"Would it surprise you to learn that one of these was collected from Klinloch Sanitarium?"

He raised an eyebrow, "Should it?"

The sharp angles of her face considered his nonchalance, "Perhaps it would if you knew that only one is the genuine thing. The other, the one from Klinloch, is a sugar pill."

Beads of condensation gathering on the glass pooled down between the joints of his fingers. Curiously, the chill drew all the intensity of his focus, leaving him hyper aware of the rivulet forming in the crease of his palm. It was shockingly cold, numbing almost. Releasing the glass, he wiped his palm against the lace-trimmed napkin at his lap but he couldn't banish the numbness spreading from the tips of his fingers through his arm, creeping through his chest like anaesthetic.

"When did you collect it?"

Sugar pills. His mind turned the words over and over with all the detachment of a watchmaker settling into place the final gear that made the whole thing whirr and spin.

"After the...influenza killed every doctor and patient save the select few who remain missing to this day. And you, of course"

Her strange emphasis at the word told him everything he needed to know. Influenza had been the official story sent to the presses, something the public could digest without going into a panic. It was clear that this woman was well aware of the truth. More than he was because until this moment, he had never understood what really happened.

"Mr. Rutherford, we have been investigating how someone managed to replace the medication given to the patients and why. So far, we've traced placebo substitutions to at least five other sanatoria in across Thedas, and done our best to minimize the damage. But..it is complicated."

Unflappable till this point, she ran a hand through her shortly cropped hair in frustration, "To be honest with you, we have one good lead on getting to the bottom of all this and it makes no sense at all. It's...fantastical to say the least.

Of course it was. Nothing made sense alone. His thoughts gyred in precise, unhurried revolutions. Little details he'd long since brushed away ticked away in concert as their incomprehensible edges fit together, form out of chaos.

"In Ostwick, there is a woman with a cursed hand. With it, she can summon demons. Physically. According to the rumors, it happens by accident whenever she is very distressed or angry. We were able to confirm at least two incidents, each of which resulted in the death of one of the household staff."

"By accident? She summons demons and has already killed two people?" Cullen scoffed, " It's clear what this is."

"I would agree with you, but our information indicates that she is not afflicted. It will be impossible to know without first hand observation."

All at once, he was tired of their meeting. The woman was driving at something but she was taking her time to get to it. Oddly, he got the distinct feeling that she was just as annoyed with the loitering around the point as he was.

"So what do you want with me?"

She leaned back in her chair suddenly, looking relieved to reach the crux of it all, "We need your help. Somehow this woman is tied up with what happened at Klinloch."

The cafe was suddenly very loud, ringing in his ears like tinnitus, "I'm just a soldier...not even that anymore."

Steely eyed, she lifted her chin, "No. You are a hero, like it or not. And You're the only one who witnessed what happened at the sanitorium first hand, the only one who could even recognize the patients who escaped.."

Taking a sip of what was undoubtedly cold tea, she continued, "I'm asking on behalf of the Divine Justinia. You would be in a special investigative task force and you would be acting with complete autonomy under the guise of a diplomatic envoy. I'll admit, your fame would lend us some credibility but that is merely an added benefit."

Cullen was silent for a moment, "You're asking me to go to Ostwick."

She nodded, draining what remained in the porcelain cup before pulling a card from her vest pocket and standing to leave, "I'm asking you to think on it. Unfortunately, we are pressed for time. You do not have long to do so."

Placing the card on the table and straightening her jacket, she continued, " If you decide to aid us in this investigation, your train ticket will be waiting at the office. We depart for Amaranthine at 4 o'clock. Today."

Before she turned to go, he heard himself ask, "Who specifically do you need me to recognize? And Why?"

But she didn't answer. Instead, she walked away and left him alone at the table with the cooling remains of coffee and tea.

The calling card was stiff in his fingers; creme stock, elaborate scrollwork curling around the edges, flowing silver script embossed into the paper. Cassandra Pentaghast.

He sat with it pressed between his thumb and forefinger, watching the influx of people both arriving and disembarking from the station, weaving between iron benches and luggage carts. In the press, he saw the gleam of blonde hair twisted up into a chignon. His sister, arrived at last.

He made his way over just as another train pulled into the station, a whir of massive, churning metal whipping up air to mingle into columns of coal ash billowing from the engine compartments. A bell dinged, signifying the impending surge of even more bodies onto the platform. She stood apart from the chaos, smoking a cigarette. There was another woman with her, frowning and speaking rapidly.

"Oh! What a disaster, I should have gone barely told him anything at all!"

Tapping the ash from her cigarette, Cassandra made a disgusted noise, "I'm not completely incompetent Josephine. There was no point in discussing all the insignificant details."

Josephine sighed, jotting down a note in the pad of paper clutched against the decorative gold braiding weaving around the edges of her black gloves.

"But you just came right out and said it. You didn't even mention anything that would incentivize a rationally thinking person to-"

As neither seemed to register his presence any time soon, Cullen cleared his throat, "I'm assuming there are some forms I'll be needing to fill out."

There were always forms.


	2. The Lawyer and the Spymaster

_She was the fifth child, the fifth girl at that, and most-her parents included-were of the opinion that four girls were already more than enough for one family. So while her naming celebration was as brilliant an affair as anyone could expect from the sixth most influential family in the city, no one paid much mind to the cooing infant in the bassinet._

* * *

There was indeed paperwork. Manila folders stuffed full with forms for pay, forms for his official position within a shadow arm of a religious organization with more political power than most countries, forms conferring security clearances, forms ensuring his silence. Even a form for the return of his greatcoat and uniform in postage from a foreign principality. By the time he was done with them all, his right hand was cramping and he was more than a little irritable. Maker's breath if he never signed another piece of paper again, it would be too soon.

The Divine's legal counsel, Josephine, took the final folder and smiled sympathetically from the bench positioned on the other side of the private passenger compartment. It was cushioned in green velvet brocade and a considerable degree more luxurious than the coach car's wooden benches that he'd spent hours on just this morning. Beside her, Cassandra stared out the window. After a perfunctory greeting on the platform, she declined to say a word to either of them.

"Good, now that all that is out of the way." Josephine extracted a briefcase from the luggage compartment underneath the seat and set it on her lap.

Reaching into the reticule dangling from her wrist, she produced a brass key and fitted it into the keyhole at the front of the case, "We will be meeting the rest of our party in Amaranthine. I received a telegram from Leliana this morning that the doctor arrived just last night."

With a decisive flick of her wrist, the briefcase snapped open and she withdrew three bound folders and handed them over, "These should keep you occupied until then."

Cullen unwound the black twine from one, noting the symbols stamped across corresponding to his newly minted security clearance, and began sifting through. For a moment the compartment was silent save for the rhythmic rumble of the train hurtling east.

"I don't suppose you have a tuxedo in that duffel?" Josephine suddenly asked, scrutinizing him beneath the brim of her smartly turned out hat. He was easily the shabbiest of all of them with his stubble and dirty fingernails. Luckily, he was never one to nurse wounded vanity overmuch and he bore up under her dissection with a mere fidget.

"No." he replied drily, not comprehending why she would ask something so odd.

She frowned, retrieving the notepad and pen that seemed perpetually near her fingertips, "With the right paperwork, I can elongate your final leave by another two weeks. You'll have to fill out a few more forms, of course. That should give us some time to have some suits done up, while you wear your uniform to some of the more casual functions."

This caught his attention, settling into his stomach like he'd just swallowed a stone, "I'm sorry, did you say functions?"

"Oh yes!" her eyes took on a delighted gleam that only made the weight in his stomach worsen, "Your presence will give us an even better chance to gain access to the Trevelyan's directly. Considering how close-lipped the staff is, it is a remarkable opportunity."

It was quite obvious now what 'diplomatic envoy' entailed. In his mind he had pictured a variant of the liaison assignments he'd performed in the year after the war ended. Most had simply involved a great deal of standing about in rooms with overlarge tables while reporters set snapped official photographs of people signing documents. None had required tuxedos.

He caught the wry twist of Cassandra's mouth reflected in the window and remembered the conversation on the platform about 'insignificant details'. Maker, what had he gotten himself into?

Rather than giving in to the temptation to quit the compartment and forget this entire day ever happened by getting off the train at the first possible opportunity, he focused on the documents in the open folder. From deep within the stack, a paper slipped out from its clip.

He saw a familiar scrawl in faded Biro beneath blocky typewritten text and the train compartment curled and distorted away like a burning photograph.

What he could remember was mostly half-recollections, overblown exposures of degraded celloid, devoid of anything beyond hints of shadow and suggestions of shape. But some memories remained clear, juxtaposed amid all the snapshots of nothingness. He expected that over time, they would lose some of their startling vividness, the colors would fade and the lines would blur until the entire picture dissolved into the brightness of forgetting. But they never did.

He clutched the paper between his thumb and forefinger and the feeling of it in his hands at that very moment overlapped like a ghostly double image over another, much older.

_Patient exhibiting symptoms of nervous disorder resistant to medication. 500 mg potassium bromide solution to be administered daily until symptoms subside. Possible candidate for electrical current therapy._  
_Dr. Greagoir.  
Chief of Medicine._

She was concentrating. He could tell because she had gone utterly still, perched up by the windows that never opened. Sunlight streamed around her, setting her fiery gold and translucent against the glass. Despite himself, he must have made a noise because the moment slipped away and she was looking up at him.

"Dr. Rutherford?"

He shifted the clipboard in his hands, "P-please, just...just call me Cullen. I'm only a medical student."

A tremor shook through his hand and the paper with Dr. Greagoir's diagnosis crumpled up against his fingers. The noise echoed, too loudly in his ears, sounding lower and deeper than it should have, like the low vibration of metal on metal. Looking down, he saw that he had nearly ripped the sheet in two.

"Is something wrong?"

Cullen released the paper with a jerk and met Josephine's concern with a calm that did nothing to betray the sick lurch in his chest or the acid bite of adrenaline on his tongue. The beginnings of a headache already lingered around his temples like a promise.

"No, just a spasm of the muscle."

Withdrawing his cigarette case and lighter from his overcoat pocket, Cullen carefully set aside the folder so as to not drop ash onto it and stared out the window at the blurring landscape until the tremor in his fingers finally subsided.

His head was still a dull, pulsating throb by the time they reached the outskirts of Amaranthine, but he had managed to finish two of the folders despite it. Their contents had confirmed some of his suspicions but left him with far more questions than answers.

Josephine had gone to the dining car, leaving him in complete silence with Cassandra, who was absorbed with a book. She had taken pains to conceal the cover from his view, leading him to draw the most amusing conclusion possible.

"Miss Pentaghast…" he started.

"Cassandra."

"Cassandra. Could I ask your opinion on all this?"

She shot him a look that demanded clarification and he gestured towards the paperwork in his lap, "This occult movement…anthroposophism"

Surreptitiously slipping her novel into the fold of the cushion, she considered for a moment before answering, "Yes, it is the idea that, rather than suffering from mental delusion, the afflicted are gifted with a connection to the spiritual realm of the Maker. If nurtured properly, this connection can be used to manipulate matter and energy in the physical world. But it is a source of danger as well, those connected are more vulnerable to..."

"Possession. I've seen it for myself. " he answered for her.

She nodded because, of course, she already knew as much,"The movement is very...fashionable in Orlesian high society, but only to a superficial extent."

From his experience with Orlesian fashion whims, Cullen fully comprehended the meaning of her pronounced eye roll. After all, he had experienced the dubious pleasure of mushroom-flavoured chocolates.

"In the Free Marches,anthroposophism is more militant in nature. We've tracked the majority of the radical pockets to Free Marcher cities along the coast-Kirkwall, Ostwick, Hercinia, and Wycome."

City lights bloomed in the darkness beyond the window, bright streaks in the dark as they hurtled towards Amaranthine. Cullen was silent for a moment, watching the tracking paths of streetlights in the distance.

"And you suspect the missing patients from Klinloch are caught up in one of these radical groups?" he asked after a moment.

"Many cities in the Free Marches lack mandatory medical testing for school aged children and lack trained professionals, anyone with magical abilities attempting to escape placement in the sanatoria often end up in the port cities. They typically fall into the radical side of the philosophy. And there is the timing of it..."

He had to admit that the timing was damning. After Klinloch, the other placebo substitutions had occurred only in the past year and the last known sighting of the patients had been just over a year ago on a ship departing from Highever to the Marches. It certainly offered a convincing explanation of the connection between Klinloch and the radical anthroposophists.

And then there were the family connections to Kirkwall. That taunted him especially. It was as if their lives were two threads fated to never intersect again except through a tangled web of other people. But, no matter what the future, they were forever knotted together by the past. He, because she had saved his life and she because he very nearly took hers.

Before he could say any more, the door to the compartment opened and Josephine's dress was brushing over the polished but worn leather of his boots. She dropped a cloth napkin onto his paperwork covered lap and presented Cassandra with a similar lacy bundle.

"I bought you both some rolls from the dining car. The Grand Hotel Amaranthine has a very talented chef, but I expect he's been asleep for the past hour."

Beyond the window, the station pulled into view as the train slowed to a stop. It was nearly deserted at the late hour, lamplight casting puddles of yellow light on the empty platforms. Muffled by the glass, he heard the whine of a siren somewhere in the city. A wave of fatigue overcame him, reminding him that he had not slept for nearly a full day. He rubbed the back of his neck, pinching nerves that seemed to have retired without the rest of him.

Josephine cast her eyes on his progress, "Oh, excellent, you're almost finished. Leliana will be pleased to be able to discuss some things before we leave tomorrow."

"I haven't read everything yet. Nothing of the information gathered on the Trevelyans," he admitted.

"Skip it." Cassandra advised, "It's useless for the most part. We have nothing on her, just the parents and the sisters-all four of them. And we'll hear our fill of the ridiculous gossip when we get there, of that I have no doubt."

Josephine stood, pulling at the creases from her coat and making a disapproving noise, "Every detail helps."

"Yes, but Leliana is overfond of irrelevant details." Cassandra said and furrowed her brow, peering out the window in distraction. The other passengers were beginning to disembark, spilling forth onto the dimly lit platform.

Josephine, sensing her point would be lost on either of them, began gathering the folders back up from the bench, "We'll be staying the remainder of the night at the Grand Hotel. It's a pity we arrived so late. I think the Most Holy would have liked to meet you before we left. She's on her way to Denerim now for the peace talks."

The negotiations over reparations between Orlais and Ferelden were still all over the headlines. It had been a year and yet disputes remained and neither side seemed ready to capitulate. The Divine Justinia's intercession could not have come too soon.

Cassandra continued to search out the window and Cullen thought the sound of sirens was growing louder. Not because they were coming closer but because there were suddenly more of them.

Outside, from the darkness, a man emerged into the pool of lamplight, pushing and shoving aside the thin flow of late night passengers milling about the platform. He was shouting, but his voice was muffled by the both glass and chorus of offended mutters.

In the compartment, the air had gone thin and sharp. He could feel the electric tingle of it in his sinuses. Pushing Josephine away from the window, he began to shout a warning.

Cassandra turned away just before the glass exploded inward, flames and smoke licking up at the gaping metal where the window had been. For a moment, the world tipped, metal groaning as the bulk of the train recoiled in the tracks from the impact. Cullen slammed against the door frame of the compartment, bracing himself in the split second of frozen inertia before the weight of the car brought it back down again in a shuddering crash.

He lost no time ripping open the door and pressing Josephine out into the hallway. Coughing violently, Cassandra followed them, handkerchief pressed against her mouth, gun already free and in her other hand.

He heard screaming and the roar of flame but both sounded muffled, as if coming through layers of cotton stuffed into his ears. The noise of the blast had damaged them, but he did not judge it to be permanent and moved on to more pressing concerns, like asphyxiation from the smoke filling the hallway.

It was quickly becoming impossible to see, his eyes tearing up and irritated from the fumes. Josephine pulled away from him, falling to her knees and reaching back into the compartment, grabbing blindly.

Before he could pull her back something glimmered to his right. He twisted to the side too slowly, feeling the knife catch on his sleeve, gouging a line across his forearm as Cassandra's gun popped painfully loud against his left ear. He could hear nothing over the ringing in his twice damaged ears, but he glimpsed the upturned toe of a work boot on the floor through the billowing grey.

Cassandra was already shoving the other semi-automatic pistol at him and he barely had time to grab it from her before she stepped past him towards the form obscured by the smoke. She made to kneel down to check the body and he checked her with a hand at her elbow.

"We must leave!"

She was shaking her head and he could see that the side of her face was scored with cuts from the glass. Her words were mostly lost as she coughed into the handkerchief but he understood enough to realize that she intended to search the body.

Josephine was straightening up with the briefcase clutched in fingers bleeding from the broken glass covering the floor, her smile shaky but triumphant.

"There's no time." he shouted, "We must reach the exit before it becomes completely blocked off."

By either knife-wielding assassins or magical fire, he did not add.

The blast had ripped through the side of the train and they were tripping over luggage and shattered doorways twisting like wraiths in the thickness of the smoke. His handkerchief didn't do much to filter the acrid burn of the ash and it was harder and harder not to stop whenever a paroxysm of coughing overcame him. But they made steady progress through the wreckage, Cassandra at the back and Josephine hemmed between them as he kept his eyes and gun trained on the smoke billowing up ahead.

When they finally reaching the back of the passenger car, Cullen thanked Andraste that the door was not in the same shape as the rest of the train and wrested it open. Air, cold and sweet whispered past and they dropped down onto the crunching gravel set between the tracks.

Cullen drew to the side of the train, straining his senses for the low hum of focused energy. But he could sense and see nothing in the haze. It'd been minutes since the last scream cut off over the crackle of the flames and now it was eerily silent save the sirens. They sounded a world away, far beyond the bitter char wrapping around the station in a suffocating cocoon.

Heat wafted across them and a man stepped out from the shadows. Cullen trained the gun on him but paused when the air remained silent. There was something off in his gait. Joints seized and shuddered in jerks and twitches, like a puppet on the strings of a poor puppeteer. Shambling forward, he stepped into the light cast by the flames and on his face was a look of absolute horror. Something whistled in the air and suddenly the fear went slack as a knife embedded itself into his neck. His own weapon dropped from limp fingers as he collapsed face-first into the gravel.

A flash of scarlet emerged from the haze and Josephine cried out "Leliana!". Cassandra lowered her weapon just enough to indicate that the woman approaching them was no threat and Cullen did the same.

She was hatless, pinned curls plastered against her neck and face, which was smeared over with ash. Giving them a terse nod, she knelt beside the body to retrieve her knife. It came free with a disturbing gurgling sound as the blood pulsed onto the gravel.

"What happened Leliana? What of the diversion?"

"It failed."

She did not look up, intent on turning the man over so that she could reach the pockets of his tattered shirt, "They knew. Somehow."

Josephine paled, "How is that possible?"

Finding nothing in the shirt, Leliana turned out the trouser pockets. A silver nickel bounced out to trace a path through the puddle of blood spreading over the tracks.

Cassandra had picked up the weapon, barely more than a butter knife, and the unremarkable metal gleamed dully in the lamplight. Leliana glanced up at it.

"Yes, similar weapons on the others. They were all also elves." she trailed off, rubbing the fabric of the workshirt between her fingers, "Factory-made clothing from Ferelden but look...it's new. They tried to make it look dirty and torn but there's no actual wear on the fabric..."

Cullen itched to get out of the open and interrupted her, "Can we please continue this conversation somewhere else?"

Standing, she nodded, "Yes, that is wise. We have much to do before the night is over."

Cassandra looked up, "We? Leliana, where is the Most Holy?"

The question halted the woman mid-stride and when she stopped, her voice was empty, "She is dead."


	3. The Doctor and the Addict

_It was no large matter to the child, given her infantile inability to comprehend the imperious glances paid to her over the rims of fine crystal champagne flutes._

* * *

To his credit as a businessman, the cabbie's reservations about taking on three still smoldering customers were entirely put to rest as soon as Josephine produced a silver coin from her purse. The man's mercantile grin was a thing of dingy-toothed glory and he snapped it up without any further question beyond, " 'Ere to miss?"

Josephine glanced towards Leliana, who was staying behind to confer with her agents before following, and answered, "The Gridelin Club, if you please."

Cullen found himself squeezed against the hansom cab door and Cassandra's shoulder, which smelled, as they all did, strongly of burnt oil. Between his hip and hers, the bulk of the canvas pouch strapped to his belt dug into his leg painfully, reassuring him that no, he did not need to check again. Everything was in place, just as it had been only moments before and the moments before those. Yet his fingers itched with the impulse until he preoccupied them with the clasp of the watch.

They were off in a clatter of hooves on cobblestones and an attempt at polite conversation on the day's events from their driver.

"Filthy elves, Howe's going to set them to rights. Ship 'em all away I say. Good riddance. Can't earn a decent wage no more thanks to that lot."

Cassandra was already producing a cigarette, handing it over towards Cullen without a word. Taking it gratefully with his free hand, he waited for her to light it before bringing the paper to his lips. In the darkness of the cab, the cherry glow of the tip wavered.

Josephine looked at the both of them with incredulity, "Didn't you get your fill of that on the train?"

He suspected Cassandra would have laughed aloud if her voice hadn't been worn completely hoarse. Instead her small smile conveyed the dry turn of her thoughts as she took care to exhale in the confined space without blowing smoke in Josephine's direction.

Peppery irritation prickled at the raw edges of his throat and it was almost enough to distract from the bleary churn of bottomless need pooling at the base of his skull. It had not been long, only a week slipping into the murky depths of withdrawal. But it was one thing to know a detached list of clinical symptoms, and another to feel himself slowly drown beneath them, knowing the worst still lurked below.

He straightened, taking a deep, punishing drag of the cigarette. Well, he would face the worst of it then. Perhaps it would eventually suffocate him, drive him mad as it had to some or send him to his grave. But he would go a man finally free of his demons.

With a few more racially charged epithets and one outright endorsement for 'a more perm'nant solution', the cab driver delivered them onto the marble steps of Amaranthine's finest social club.

"Thank you m'ladies, sir."

Bending at the waist, the cabbie doffed his cap, revealing a mop of greasy dark hair. When he straightened, it was another man in his place, eyes rolled up into his skull and looking like pale, glistening stones set into convulsing flesh.

It wasn't real, he knew. Another memory resurfaced from the brightness into disturbing clarity. Shaking his head to clear the dregs of the past, Cullen nodded back at the driver and turned towards the building.

Josephine was making an attempt to straighten her hat but it was hopelessly crushed, pieces of scorched netting coming off in her gloves. Electric lights fixed to pillars of the portico cast a piercing gleam over everything and Cullen immediately regretted leaving the more forgiving dimness of the street. They were all covered head to toe in grime and worse. In the better light, he could now see the rust-colored spatter of blood drying on Cassandra's collar.

A uniformed man hurried forward from the door, "No, no, no, we are not open to the public." his nose wrinkled up in disdain and he attempted to shoo them back off the steps, "I shall fetch someone if you don't leave immediately."

Josephine straightened and from the decided jut her chin, it was suddenly easy to forget the disheveled hair half free from its pins or the ash burrowed into every crease of the rumpled navy travelling coat. Steely eyed, she reached into her purse, it having since lost many of the decorative glass beads set into the satin, and withdrew her card to hand to the attendant. Cullen saw that the thumb of her glove left a smudge, dark against the gold filagree.

Her card gave the attendant pause and he looked up from it to eye the rest of them. Cassandra favored the man with a disgusted noise and returned her silver lighter to the inner pocket of her suit jacket, once burgundy, now a sickly shade of puce beneath the soot.

The attendant stammered a horrified apology and ushered them inside into a vast foyer filled with men in tuxedos and women in formal gowns clutching crystal glasses and cigarettes. Some noted their entrance with wide eyes and scandalized whispers loud enough to hear over the faint strains of the music playing in the billiards room.

A rough-looking man standing beside an exotic potted palm approached them, "Lady Pentaghast, Lady Montilyet, we've been waiting for your arrival. The doctor is in one of the private rooms, I'll take you to him."

The man escorted them down a nearby hallway, constantly shifting his shoulders in the jacket in a way that made it blatantly obvious how uncomfortable he was amid the press of Amaranthine's social elite. Cullen could empathize, even if he had not been half burnt and bleeding from a knife wound, something about the marble foyer and the potted ferns seemed to sneer at those who did not belong. And a farmboy from Honnleath certainly did not belong.

They were led to a room, dimly lit and richly furnished. A man was standing by the fireplace, light gleaming off the sharp jut of his ears and the sleek curve of his bare head. Drink in hand, he greeted them and said, more casually than the words deserved, "I am pleased to see that you all still live."

Josephine perched on the arm of a tufted leather settee, "The night is still young, Solas. What news?"

He indicated the reports scattered across the table meant for cocktails, "As our spymaster suspected, none of the elves involved in the attack on Divine Justinia's motor car had been on any employment or housing records in Amaranthine. No typical scarring or missing appendages from factory labor despite what their clothing implied."

Cullen spoke, "The man at the station with the knife, he seemed to be compelled. I've...seen something similar before."

Intelligent eyes lit on him, and it was then that Cullen noticed that the air hummed with latent power, "I expect you have, Captain."

Cassandra was up and pacing. When she spoke, her voice cracked, "Blood magic."

"Why were they there at all?" Josephine asked, sinking down into the settee.

"To be killed." Cassandra answered for her, stopping to lean against the wall and scrutinize the fire dancing all too merrily in the grate, "To be seen."

"For what gain?"

Ice clinked against the tumbler as Solas took another drink. His movements were unhurried, almost ponderous, "I suspect it has something to do with Arl Howe's endorsement for the forceful removal of elves from Ferelden. Before, it had no real chance for political support. Now, he will undoubtedly succeed."

"So the Arl may be involved in this." Josephine muttered, "Why?"

The door opened and Leliana entered the room, a rustle of grimy lavender satin, "Unfortunately, we may not discover until it is too late. But someone is funding Howe's agenda."

Pouring herself a drink from the crystal decanter on the sideboard, she continued on after downing it all in one gulp, "I will stay in the city and gather what I can on his business contacts. Whatever they are planning, they are sure to show a hand at the peace talks. The rest of you will depart tomorrow morning for Ostwick, as originally planned."

Cassandra protested, "You can't be serious Leliana."

Cullen had to agree. Whatever ties led to Ostwick, surely they did not matter in the wake of the Divine's death.

"Is that wise?" he simply asked.

A red curl fell forward and she pushed it back, smudging her forehead further with the blackened lace of her gloves, "You're all alive. I don't think that was a mistake."

Leliana looked down at her other hand and he could now see that she held photographs. Standing as close as he was, he could just make out the black and white image of a smoked-out crater filled with twisted metal shapes. He realized after a beat that he was looking at the remains of a city block, collapsed storefronts silently testifying to the radius of the blast.

"You think the intent was not lethal? A mere show of power?" Solas asked.

She dropped the terrible images on top of the paperwork as if they were suddenly too heavy to hold, "A distraction. We're closing in on the funding source. Howe's backers may be the same people supplying the radicals."

Cullen shook his head, not quite believing what he was hearing, "Wouldn't it be better for us to remain? The attack at the station was fatal for those on the platform, if you recall. What if there is another?"

Rather than look at him, her eyes remained on the photographs, "It may be callous but the only attack that mattered has already happened. Justinia is gone. She was the last voice for peace and reform."

"And was heavily criticized for both, if I recall" Solas added, "The Divine had many enemies and so may we."

"But not elves." Josephine had leaned forward, lifting the edge of the photograph with tentative fingers, "The Most Holy advocated against the segregation laws and restrictions in immigration. Her successor is likely not to hold the same views. Especially not now."

"This...staging...spits on everything she stood for."

Cassandra's voice was low and guttural, from grief or smoke inhalation, he could not tell. She had shrugged off her jacket and now clutched it tightly between her hands, "As much as I want to hunt down the bastards responsible, Leliana is right. We can't afford to be reactionary. Until we have more information on these attacks, we must remain focused on what leads we do have, and those still point to Ostwick."

It was almost daylight by the time everything was settled. Leliana was forced to make last minute arrangements on another ship, a luxury liner paid handsomely and quietly to make a new stop on the way to Antiva City. Agents constantly flitted in and out of the room as the midnight hours waned, one bearing their salvaged luggage from the train. Cullen had procured a sewing needle and thread from Josephine and stitched up the shallow cut on his arm and the tear in his sleeve that accompanied it.

The club had private bedrooms for overnight guests too drunk to make their way back to their lavish homes and before departing, they all took advantage of the hot running water and available soap. Cullen was still rubbing pomade from his hands onto a nearby towel when someone rapped on the room door.

Straightening a collar that had long since given up its form, Cullen opened the ornately carved mahogany. Cassandra walked in, cleaned up and in another suit that put his own to shame. She eyed him and smiled, "Josephine will have you pinned and measured before the day is out, I guarantee you that."

"Are you here on fashion business then?" he asked, mood light now that he no longer reeked of a chimney.

"No. I wanted to speak with you alone before left. Tell me, how long has it been?"

He had absolutely no idea what she was talking about and said so.

"The lyrium. You've stopped taking it haven't you?"

Going absolutely still, he asked, "How could you possibly know that?"

She indicated his right arm, "When you stitched your arm, you rolled up both sleeves. No fresh needle marks, but plenty of scarring. We can procure more for you if you need it."

He shook his head, "No, it's not that. I've decided that I will no longer be taking it."

Her face betrayed little of her thoughts and he liked her all the more for it. If he was going to have to talk about this, he much preferred to do so without navigating the waters of another's judgement. It didn't matter if it was there, concealed, so long as he was not expected to assuage it.

"It's a difficult choice, from what I know of the drug." she said, "But if you're resolved…"

"I am." Cullen replied and he sounded more firm and more sure of himself than he had for long time.

Cassandra nodded and he was glad to see that his word on the matter was enough for her. It was a feeling he hadn't realized he missed-being trusted. She paused, as if deciding whether or not to speak before finally saying, "I would like you to know that I know what really happened with your unit at the Battle of Lothering. I know what you did for the mages in your care and I think you are an honorable man."

He was so stunned that he did not speak until she cleared her throat once, likely still as raw as his was, and moved to leave.

"Wait," he called after her, "If you could, there are things I do need, for the...withdrawal symptoms. Is it possible to obtain them discreetly?"

"Of course."

He wrote her a list with the pen and stationary laid out on the room's roll top desk.

"You'll have them before we leave the city." she said.

True to her word, by the time the HMS Queen Anora left the harbor, he had been pinned and measured within every inch by Josephine's sadist turned tailor. Apparently, news of the Divine's death and his inclusion had resulted in nearly every wealthy family in Ostwick clamouring for their attendance at half a dozen ridiculous sounding engagements and Josephine was in a flurry trying to prepare his wardrobe.

Only after he managed an escape to his private stateroom, did he discover the array of tinctures and powders already waiting on the nightstand. Four dropperfulls of sickly sweet sodium salicylate on his tongue and he collapsed into the chair arranged by the desk where Josephine's folders awaited.


	4. The Lady and the Thief

_Lacking foresight, she did not realize how this portended her future in Ostwick high society._

* * *

The bells had been ringing all morning long and she had been up the entire night. Rubbing the corner of her eye with one ink-stained glove, she sighed at the rows of sums that continued to evade her clumsy thoughts like silk too slippery to grasp properly.

"Perhaps it would be best to leave the household accounts for tomorrow, miss."

She smiled up at Branson, feeling very disheveled in comparison. His uniform was perfectly pressed as always; shoes shined to patent leather mirrors, cufflinks straight, collar starched into stiff folded-down triangles. It made her feel a bit guilty knowing that her mother would fire him on the spot had he looked as unkempt as she did. But neither of them were responsible for the accidents of their births and she knew Branson certainly didn't spend any time worrying over the injustice of it all. The old man was far too practical for that.

"Perhaps you are right." she frowned and the red ink glared up at her with reproach.

"Forgive me for saying, Miss Adelina, but the manor will not crumble apart in the span of a day."

He was right, of course.

She indicated a messy stack of papers, "These at least are ready to be signed by father. He should be sufficiently intoxicated, it is almost eleven"

"It is exactly 11:20, miss."

She startled. So late already? No wonder he had been gently urging her out of the study for the past hour. Her mother must already be in the foyer, ready to depart. Peering into the mirror fixed to the wall by the desk, Adelina did her best to scrub the purple shadows from beneath her bloodshot eyes.

"I'll certainly be living up to the horror stories today." she muttered aloud.

Branson made no comment, bless the man.

Truth be told, it would have amused her if it were not for the harrying her appearance would undoubtedly elicit from her mother. Lady Trevelyan placed great import in appearances even without half the town convinced one of her daughters blasphemed with demons over afternoon tea on a regular basis. Adelina attempted to tame her hair into submission, hoping to look a bit less like a blasphemer and a little more like the sort of woman who only took tea with respectful sorts. But both endeavors were proving to be hopeless, so she simply settled her hat as best she could, drawing the tuxedo netting down over her face in the hopes that it would conceal the evidence of a sleepless night.

The gasp of horror that met her arrival into the foyer was all the confirmation that her best attempts were insufficient.

"Andraste's tears, you look positively wild."

Her mother's fur tippet rippled with her displeasure. Adelina despised that wrap, the inky mink still possessed its original owner's intact head and it seemed to always glower at her. It did so now, beady eyes expressing only disapproval.

"Forgive me mother, I forgot the hour." she delivered her apology with a set jaw and determined expression that undermined her words entirely.

No one else spoke, her sisters suddenly absorbed with the elaborate lace of their puffed sleeve jackets, and her father too deep in his cups to be aware of the tension reverberating through the marbled entryway.

The mink's four paws swung as Lady Trevelyan made a haughty turn towards the door, "Very well. You'll have no one to blame but yourself when everyone is talking about your disastrous appearance."

Unable to stop the arch in her brow at her mother's definition of a disaster on the day the entire town was in mourning, Adelina averted her eyes down to her clasped hands and realized that she had forgotten to change her gloves. But it was too late to run all the way to her room, they were already out the door and on the way to the carriage, her sisters forming prim rows after her father and mother. Folding her hands into the black taffeta skirt, she could only follow.

"Why could you not have invited them to stay with us Mama?" her second oldest sister asked and Adelina wanted to kiss her for it, "Everyone else already has."

Her mother had spent the last ten minutes lacing as many barbs as possible into the conversation and Adelina was grateful for the change in topic. The carriage jostled around on its springs and she stabilized herself without moving her hands from beneath her skirt, determined not to incur more scrutiny.

"You know very well why. We already have expected guests."

Cora pouted prettily, "They're relations."

"Very, very distant relations my dear. Almost not at all. We're lucky they've finally forgiven us for the misunderstanding with…" her mother's eyes slanted towards her in silent accusation, "Well, this is a chance to heal the breach."

Adelina remained silent, but she flushed with anger. She was an infant during the whole thing, it wasn't like she had been the one to hurl all those accusations the last time their 'very very distant' relations made an appearance in Ostwick. Her palm began to tingle beneath the heavy fold of her skirt and its telltale glow flickered faintly against the chestnut paneling of the carriage.

Before anyone noticed, she tamped the flare of anger down beneath a reservoir of calm-a reservoir nearly run dry. Sleep deprivation and a day spent near her mother were a poor combination for self control.

Her sister was still pouting but it was not producing any of the desired results, "But none of them have been in the papers."

"I should think not, how gauche." her mother sniffed.

Lady Trevelyan found a great many things gauche. A second rate mezzo soprano hailing from Antiva without much of a title at all, she was quick to capitalize on the small aristocratic reputation gained from marrying a bann. Trapped in the social limbo of moderate wealth and means, she summarily dismissed everyone above and below her with that single word.

They had reached the Chantry slightly later than everyone else-a clever tactic to ensure a full church to witness their entrance. Gripping the door of the carriage, she took in the lovely white belfry rising above the red tiled roof and vast patina dome. It was a magnificent building, old Tevinter architecture (rid of its more draconic elements) that had managed to survive both time and war. Nestled against the Vimmark foothills, it overlooked the town and ocean shore, finials soaring up into the sky. The low bell was still ringing out for the death of the Divine Justinia, heralding the beginning of the period of mourning that would endure until the next Divine was chosen. For days on end the cathedral would echo with the Invocation to the Maker, beseeching his care for the soul taken so quickly to bask in the glory of his light.

She was suddenly convinced her sleepless night had been entirely worth her mother's scorn.

"Adelina, your gloves!"

Perhaps not.

"Absolutely covered in ink, you're not fit to be seen."

But be seen she must. Ostwick's population was staunchly religious, fanatic almost, but it was difficult for them to consign a woman and her family to total damnation when she regularly attended church.

Her mother seemed to consider exactly what rumors would circulate if her bewitched daughter were to be conveniently absent on the day the city began to mourn the Divine's death. Not pleased with the possibilities, she hissed for Adelina to keep her hands folded into her dress and promptly marched towards the doors of the cathedral.

They arrived during the Threnodies liturgy and her mother's entrance was spoilt by the fact that everyone was focused on the Grand Cleric. Her family was forced to take their seats in one of the last pews facing the golden statue of Andraste towering high into the cathedral dome and her mother huffing to indicate her dissatisfaction at the poor location.

Adelina sat at the end of the pew, as far from the loathsome mink as possible without signifying acrimony. The convocation was repeating the verse in unison and she scrambled to find the place mentally, succeeding in time to say the final two lines, "Go forth to claim the empty throne of heaven and be Gods."

Such a hideous thing. Perhaps she should speak to the furrier herself. Threats from a bedeviled woman might be incentive enough to stop him from extending her mother any more credit. Her palm tingled and there was a whisper of something otherworldly curling against her earlobe, a song distorted and faint as if coming from underneath an ocean.

She forgot to keep her hands beneath her skirt as the first words of the Invocation rose up through the cupola from the lips of Sister Angelica. It cut off the faint murmur in her ear, drowning it back beneath the waves. The piercing sweetness of her voice soon joined at the renewed interval with the harmonious voices of the other sisters and brothers.

"I don't remember this melody." her mother muttered, "When Beatrix died."

It sounded somehow like a hundred human voices forming the chime of the low bell, the mournful third that only cried out alone on the darkest of days. It drew their rapt attention, this new lamentation weaving up through the marble arches, echoing out over the hills to join the ring of heavy brass as it dipped and swelled.

Against her skirt, her fingers weaved the rhythm in time. The tempo had been crafted for each harmony so that the shifting accent notes together emulated the motion of the bells and the complexity of it was like pure joy in her hands.

After the echoes of the last note faded, the cathedral fell into stunned silence before the Grand Cleric began again the Threnodies liturgy verse. After, the cathedral recited with her. Adelina joined them, her voice one of hundreds, lost in the well of communal sorrow.

_In secret they worked _  
_Magic upon magic _  
_All their power and all their vanity _  
_They turned against the Veil_  
_Yet it would not give way_

It wasn't until the stained glass lit up with rose gold from the setting sun that they stood to leave. Outside, they stretched out the pins and needles from limbs, waiting for the carriage while her mother fulfilled the secondary purpose of religious worship by engaging in vicious gossip.

"My dear Lady Trevelyan." Lady Monteagle inclined her head, the magnificent plumage of her hat swaying and bobbing with the motion, "The Grand Cleric and her mystery musician have quite outdone themselves with the arrangement of the Invocation. What a beautiful composition."

Lady Trevelyan wrinkled her nose in distaste, "I thought it far too modern. A religious prayer should not be so evocative. It's a chantry, not an opera house."

"I would have thought you developed a taste for the modern aesthetic given your fashion choices this morning. That tippet is remarkably unique...very avante garde." Lady Monteagle replied, all smug smiles.

It was then that the rest of them noticed the mink was missing all of it's legs. In their place were four bald patches, stark white against the fur. Her mother blanched but refrained from expressing her mortification until they were back in the carriage, safely away from prying ears. But once she began, it was all anyone heard of through tea and dinner. As the last of the china plates were cleared away, Adelina managed to slip away to the gardens unnoticed and spare herself the umpteenth iteration.

She shifted her weight on the wall. It was the highest encircling the three terraced gardens rippling out from the top of the hilly slope. Before, when they could afford more than a handful of overworked groundskeepers, the gardens were kept in clipped precision, but now the walkways were obscured with wandering greenery. She preferred it that way, everything overgrown and untamed. Some ten feet beneath her dangling heels, the moonlight silvered the wild tangles of the herb garden.

If she had any lingering doubts over who was responsible for the mink incident earlier, they were silenced when a furry limb affixed to a black ribbon landed squarely in her lap.

She plucked it up and laughed, "What's this? A gruesome trophy?"

"Hardly. Well, sort of, actually. It's for luck." Sera wrinkled her nose, "Doesn't everyone know animal feet are lucky?"

She rubbed a finger over the fur, feeling the fragile bones beneath, "They don't seem to be much luck to the dead animals."

Sera considered this for a second, flouncing down beside her, "So its stupid, the luck bit. But it was a laugh."

"I know," Adelina said, "I could hear you snickering from the bushes outside the cathedral."

"Did you see her face?" Sera guffawed, "I about pissed myself."

"Good thing you were in the bushes then." Adelina pointed out but Sera was far too delighted with herself to take any notice. Rather, she opted to replay the remainder of the scene with far more profanity than it originally contained. Her impersonations were rather good but her Antivan accent was absolutely dreadful-a cross between Orlesian and Denerim street twang. She drawled out, "Oh yes, the new fashion it is. More humane for the little buggers."

Adelina drew her feet up into her skirt, laughing helplessly. Sera rounded on her, eyes sparkling, "Right, so you sort out that little tosser yet? "

"Not yet." she frowned and bit her bottom lip between her teeth, "But I did secure the maid a new position in a shop. It shouldn't be too strenuous for a woman in the family way."

"Right, right." Sera dismissed, "But what are you going to do to him so he'll keep his nasty little prick to himself?"

Adelina groaned, remembering now the promise she gave Sera in an attempt to dissuade her from castrating Bann Penrose's only son. Not that the man didn't deserve it, but that only made the whole process of coming up with an alternative even more difficult. Besides, just retribution had been the furthest thing from her mind lately.

"I knew it. Showin up at four in the bloody morning with music." Sera accused.

Unlike her sisters, Adelina's complexion favored that of her father-all pale and pink and prone to getting splotchy at the slightest provocation. And Sera's acid tongue was more than enough to turn her scarlet.

She did her best to apologize, "I'm sorry, I was up all night making last minute alterations."

Sera was having none of it and snapped, "Tell that to the other maids. Why're you taking so long anyway? It's not hard is it? I thought of a million things already."

A million things that would get the constable involved. It was a constant struggle keeping Sera out of Ostwick's two-room jail. The city was too small for her Red Jenny antics and despite only having a handful of men and women on the police force, all were well acquainted with Sera. As much as Adelina would miss her, she couldn't help but wonder why Sera hadn't moved on to Val Royeaux or Denerim-cities large enough to afford the protection of anonymity.

"Oh? A million things that don't involve sharp objects?"

"What's the fun in that? 'Sides, its just smart. Cut off the problem at its source."

Adelina made a face, "Charming visual. But no. Give me more time. I'll think of something, I promise."

For a moment, she feared Sera would tell her to sod off, her lips were compressed down and thin at the corners-a sure sign of imminent profanity. But instead she changed the subject.

"I'm going to hear it for days and days and go all batty. When that happens, you're top on my castrating list."

Rather than a threat, it sounded like a statement of affection. Actually, the majority of Sera's admissions of affection were phrased within threats, so that was nothing particularly new.

"I will think of something today" Adelina promised, "And thank you. You know I couldn't…"

"Resist ripping demon holes everywhere without my help?" Sera finished for her, ripping a tendril of clematis from the wall just to be destructive, "Yeah, I know. But you need a new thing to take your mind off all that. Something that doesn't involve music and the asscrack of dawn. Or does, so long as I'm not the one bringing it round to Grand Cleric Sour Tits"

Fingers shredding apart the vine into little pieces of green, she considered seriously, "Maybe like in the stories yeah? But the good-looking one is dead."

Adelina paused, confused, and then laughed despite herself, "King Cailen was married, he wasn't about to go around breaking curses with kisses."

"Just a peck, maybe a little squeeze if you were feeling generous. Hardly anything."

Resisting the urge to push her only friend off the wall and into the herb garden below, Adelina glowered, hoping it would compensate for the fierce flush warming her face.

"Have it your way. Keep writing music about being welcomed into Andraste's glorious tits or whatever."

"Bosom. And I didn't write the words you know, only the music."

Sera stood up suddenly and balanced on the edge, crushing vines underfoot, "Same thing. If I have to listen to something all week, it's going to be something funny. Funny wont make me go batty. Still liked the demon tea party one, people still talk about it."

Adelina smiled, leaning forward into the breeze while bracing her hands against the terra cotta. Starting the rumors had begun as a wager between the two of them and long since became a running experiment to see exactly how much people were willing to believe.

She used to worry constantly over what people said of her. It was the kind of worry that kept her up all night practicing little mannerisms like how to fold her palms inward without being too obvious about it. Head down, placid expression, heavy gloves, palms facing away.

It mattered, vitally, that she prove every rumor wrong. No, she didn't burst into green flames when she cried, of course she could touch the statue of Andraste without scorching her fingers, there were no horns under her hat, no extra toes. The part of her heart that believed it was possible to make them love her had still pulsed, delicate and fervent in her chest. A tremulous "maybe if" beating bright and vivid wings against her ribs.

"You could tell everyone that if they look at me cross-eyed, they'll be able to see my true form?" she suggested after a beat.

Sera cackled, throwing a confetti of green stems into the night, "That's sparkling."


	5. The Knight and the Academic

_The old woman arrived at the glittering marble ballroom with no announcement from the servant at the door._

* * *

He'd expected the lyrium withdrawal to continue to submerge him inch by terrible inch into the headaches, the nausea, the sweat soaking through his shirt. But instead, it dragged him down with one forceful jerk, the way a predator does once it finally gets a proper grasp on its prey. There was no warning, no chance for one last gasp of air before he was pulled under.

When he closed his eyes, he saw light dissolve like sugar into watery darkness.

"Your technique is much improved."

It was not insincere praise, but it was certainly unqualified. He was no great connoisseur of art, especially not art that strayed from pleasant but uninspired depictions of nature. Pragmatic, his opinion was that a painting should simply replicate life in every minute detail, like a photograph in oils. Good art accomplished this and bad art did not and Cullen didn't bother with adjusting that view until her work had gone beyond quiet still-lifes and taken on a dreamy, abstract quality.

He found himself fascinated with the rippling surfaces and stippled peaks of dried paint, images once so clear now obscured in the interplay of choppy brush strokes. It was somehow more real than anything in their sterile white world-the difference between looking at a picture of a bird and feeling a beating wing against his hand.

Solana tapped her brush into the glass at her side and he watched the ribbon of cadmium yellow unfurl in the water.

"Thank you. And thank you again for the paints. They've helped a great deal." she paused to look up at him and smile. A real smile, not the serene, medicated variety.

The pink pills left patients fully alert but dissociated from all emotion except mild happiness. His instructors were very clear that it was a pleasant sensation-enjoyable almost. Solana Amell had never seemed as subdued as the others, something more lingering at the corners of her expressive eyes.

Seeing the real thing and not its diminutive shadow, he felt the visceral impact of her joy punch him in the stomach.

He would have to tell immediately.

The paintbrush scratched against the canvas. He stood still, listening to the sound, like the skittering of claws in the dark.

"You don't have to tell him anything." Solana said and the brush left rust colored smears, sounding like dead and brittle leaves rustling under the foot of an animal. He flinched. Not leaves.

"If you felt anything for me, you wouldn't tell him. You'd stay here, with me, just like this."

Her eyes were odd, summer's day blue flickering with a strange intensity as she ran the brush handle against her lips, pursed in thought. It was almost seductive and Cullen could not repress the warm shiver furrowing through his spine.

No. What he felt was impossible and inappropriate. She was a patient in his care and it didn't matter how different she was, the fact remained. He was shaking his head, backing away but there was something solid behind him that had not been there before.

Overhead, the electric bulb flared and then popped with a whine, dropping the room into inky rasp of bristles was even louder and the noise burrowed into his skull, terror gnawing on the primal part of his brain that recognized the writhing shadows for what they really were. He was already screaming when one came too close, scrabbling over his foot. He picked up the small furry body and heaved it against the barrier.

In the darkness, the thing that looked like Solana Amell stared at him with hungry eyes.

Cullen woke in the copper bathtub.

He was clothed and he reeked of a chemist. By the time he registered the bitter film coating his mouth, he saw the physical evidence as to why. Apparently the antiemetic had not been very effective, he'd been unable to keep any of the medication down.

Stripping off his shirt and trousers with heaving, shivering motions, he turned the mother-of-pearl inlaid handles and thanked first class amenities for the torrent of water pouring out of the faucet. It was too hot, scalding almost. But pain scraped the aches from his joints. He thought it must've been a long time that he'd been out, his limbs were cramping and sore as if he'd spent days in the tub.

Which, when he saw the folded notes slipped beneath his door, was looking to have been the case. Three from Josephine, growing increasingly concerned over his 'seasickness' and a single sentence note from Cassandra, inquiring if he needed anything more from the ship's physician. From them, he gathered that he had not left his cabin for at least two days. Judging from the decidedly pink cast of the light from the port hole window, it was perhaps closer to three-over half the journey.

The cabin was stifling and stale and he suddenly needed to breath air that wasn't saturated with the acid tang of sweat and fear. Dressing in clean, but rather rumpled clothes, he moved to the silver tray by his bedside and noticed for the first time that his medic's pouch was out, flap folded back. A rubber canister was open, revealing the glass tops of the hypodermic needles. One was missing.

Cullen checked the other compartment with trembling fingers but the blue vial was still full. Sunset spilled through the window and the lyrium caught the sunlight like an ocean wave, turning blood red. His resolve, already strained beyond measure, flagged.

But before it could fail entirely, a silver disc in the tangle of sheets on the floor caught his eye, distracting him from the need clamoring up in his veins. Still holding the lyrium vial, he bent down to pick it up. It was the pocket watch, familiar filigree reassuring against his fingertips as the chain clinked against his waistcoat buttons. Cullen rubbed his thumb over it for a long moment before tucking it into his pocket. He then placed the lyrium back in his medic's pouch and folded the rubber canister lid back down.

The promenade deck was mostly empty. Judging from the distant clatter of silverware and murmur of voices drifting from the nearby dining salon, Cullen assumed this was due to the fact that most of the other passengers were in the middle of supper. But there was a lone figure leaning against the brass and wood railings, outlined black against the rosy sky. Without turning, the man addressed him.

"Feeling better Captain?"

"Not particularly, but it is an improvement" Cullen admitted, joining the doctor at the railing.

Solas nodded and they fell into silence underscored by the faint sound of the quartet performing inside. After a moment, Cullen finally decided to address the question lingering in the back of his mind since they had been introduced. It seemed impossible to him that a mage would seek out a career in medical work.

"May I ask what branch of medicine you practice?"

Solas smiled thinly, "I'm not that sort of doctor. I hold a doctorate degree, not a medical license. But not many elves have the distinction of either."

"That's not what I meant to imply." Cullen put in, "It was your magical ability that provoked the question."

"Ah, yes. Forgive the assumption." he was holding a walking stick and it practically hummed with focused energy. At the top was the carving of some sort set in bronze, but Cullen could not quite make it out the way Solas was gripping the cane. It was a bit taller than the fashionable equivalents Cullen had seen other men carry, but otherwise, there was nothing especially distinctive about it.

"I assume your area of study is pertinent to our business in Ostwick." Cullen ventured, realizing quickly that Solas was not one to volunteer personal information freely.

"That remains to be seen. I had published a paper on a historical artifact detailing the existence of a spirit world, termed the Fade, and its denizens. Leliana contacted me soon after."

"You study magic?" Cullen asked.

"Academically, I study historical folklore dealing with magic" Solas answered, "But yes. An artifact of a similar description is detailed in the many tellings of the Trevelyan girl's curse. In fact, it is one of the few details that remains constant."

He shifted the cane in his hand; two pointed ears and a snout peaked out from beneath his fingertips. A wolf's head. The choice struck Cullen as odd. It was well crafted and finely detailed but a far cry from typical.

"And what branch of medicine do you practice Captain?"

Cullen's hands tightened around the polished maple railing, "None. I am no longer interested in the medical field."

Solas turned towards him and Cullen was struck with the disconcerting feeling that the man's eyes saw a great deal too much, "What interested you in the first place?"

He answered without thought, "I wanted to help others."

It was not the first someone had asked, and not the first time he'd given the answer, but it was certainly the first time it had been met with a chuckle. The laughter was not mocking, but Cullen found himself wishing it was. He was unsure what to make of the genuine amusement and the fact that it was the first sign of mirth from the doctor left him bewildered.

"May I ask then, why medicine? Why not a cobbler? Or a baker? Most professions help people, Captain. And a well-mended shoe is more gratefully received than most medical examinations."

For a moment, Cullen had no reply. He had been thirteen by the time he'd been accepted to the lyceum for medical training, but his heart was set long before then, so long ago that he could not recall a time in his childhood when it wasn't. There was no single moment of epiphany that had fixed in his mind, just a vague impression of crisp white coats over expensive suits and an unmistakable air of competence. Not the sort of competence he'd seen before, the kind that coaxed plows out of muddy ground or haggled down the price of seed at market-something else, something that seemed like more.

"I suppose I wanted to help those who were helpless." he finally answered, sifting through his earliest memories and finding nothing beyond images long tarnished.

Amusement gone, Solas examined him seriously, "So you didn't want to help others, you wanted to save them."

Cullen found himself irritated, but he was at a loss as to if he was irritated with himself or the other man, "How are the two different?'

"Those who cannot help themselves must be saved. They are entirely dependent on aid and without it they are lost...without a savior they are doomed and that is what you truly wished to be."

The word 'savior' brought up stained glass images of Andraste and that did not sit well with him.

"It's a noble ideal" Solas continued on, clarifying, "Not a holy one...well, not in the way you are perhaps thinking of. More like the modern equivalent of knighthood."

Knighthood. The idea resonated in his memory and with it, he heard the ring of truth reverberating down to the very core of his being. Cullen looked away and watched the crash of seawater against the hull of the ship, very far beneath him. A foamy spray kicked up and he could smell the brine of it as if it had splashed against his face.

"That's rather ridiculous." he finally said, looking back up.

"Is it?" Solas asked, face contemplative as he watched the disc of sunlight finally dip completely beneath the waterline, "Rescuing the helpless. What quest could be more noble?"

A wry twist of smile appeared and it seemed to Cullen that perhaps Solas was no longer thinking only of his professional idealism.

"Something amuses you?" he asked dryly.

"A great many things. What amuses you Captain?"

Well, if the man wanted to be evasive, Cullen was in no position to stand in his way. But there was something too defensive in his words and they sounded sharp-edged as they parried a line of questioning that cut too deeply.

Seeing that he had already given himself away, Solas offered up, "I was just musing on how it is that those who need to be saved never seem to want to be. The whole business is an exercise in folly."

"Only if the real purpose is praise."

"Yes." Solas answered, "That is true. But without praise, our saviors are fated to become our villains."


	6. The Hunter and the Houseguests

_She had certainly not been invited._

* * *

"Freezing my ditties off up here."

Adelina glanced up from the pile of sheet music, carefully weighed down with her heeled shoe to prevent papers from scattering with the slightest gust. The chantry's bell chamber turned workshop was highly prone to gusts. It was little more than a wooden platform at the top of the tower, encircled by eight shuttered archways nearly twice as tall as a person. Even closed, the wooden slats did little to keep breezes out and Sera had flung open three so that she could walk out onto the peaked roof of the church and survey the town. She liked to squish the distant figures bustling in the square between her thumb and index finger-particularly those she disliked.

"Got you now you bleedin' ninny." Sera cackled, forgetting her frozen breasts in a fit of malicious glee.

"I'm not giving you my shawl, you know its getting colder and you still never come prepared." Adelina informed her before going back to work.

"Be stingy if you like."

That was a tone that bode ill. It said that Sera was already halfway through devising a prank. Probably something with jam. Shooting a panicked look at the cello propped up against the wall-she had only just gotten it clean after the last time-Adelina sighed and heaved herself up. Her arm jostled the chipped little teapot at her side and it threatened to spill lukewarm earl grey all over the pages still wet with ink. Luckily she caught it in time and moved it further away for good measure.

"Bring me one of them, you know, sone...sconce...fancy biscuits while you're at it." Sera added.

Adelina grabbed a lemon scone from the plate and then paused, "Wait...to eat or to throw?"

Silence was her answer and she set the pastry back down with a sigh and climbed out onto the stone ledge jutting from the open arch. The stonework was chilly against her bare feet and her toes were already slightly numb from the wind nipping up her skirt but the ledge was half the width of her foot and heels made the process tricky.

It was a lucky thing that heights did not frighten her, otherwise the prank Sera used years ago to lure her out onto the roof for the first time would have resulted in several ruined instruments instead of several slightly water damaged instruments (it had been raining, which made the decision to be insane more rapid than it normally would have been). But it was a long time now that pranks were unnecessary, although that did not discourage Sera. The view of Ostwick at dawn while the bells rang bronze reverberations through the chantry stone was enough incentive to endure cold toes.

It was a good roof for climbing, the tiles didn't slip and the masonry wasn't prone to crumbling treacherously beneath feet. A wide, flat strip bisected the sharp gabled roof only a foot below the ledge. She hopped down with practice more than care and walked along to where Sera perched-at the very end where plaster gave way to sky.

"You're golden" Sera took the shawl from her and cocooned herself up against the wind with the plaid weave. It wasn't pretty or fashionable but it was warm and as much as Adelina loved her makeshift workshop for the relative solitude it afforded; cold, clumsy fingers were a significant drawback.

"How about you leave off that stupid symphony or whatever it is you're writing and let me take a crack at them?"

Adelina snorted, making her way back across the roof to the belfry, "Not for all the jam in Ostwick." she called over her shoulder.

The three bells were housed in a wooden lattice nestled up in the spire of the belfry, almost twenty feet above the wooden floor of the bell chamber. A complex pulley system allowed them to be lowered for monthly cleanings but now they remained suspended above her, massive clappers muffled against the bronze rims. Sera was mad to ring them, she had gotten it into her head that it would be interesting to do so by striking the cavernous undersides with a mallet. No amount of dissuading could convince her that it would not be "a laugh" to go deaf by doing so.

"I bet they're easier to steal than horses. No shite to clean up after either."

Pausing, she turned around to see what Sera could be possibly be talking about. Not the bells certainly...hopefully. And then she saw them-tiny metal forms gleamed in the distance, kicking up dust from the road. Motorcars, she realized.

"Looks like they're heading for your place."

They were indeed.

"Shit." Adelina cursed.

"My darling, I was beside myself with worry." her mother was glaring daggers over the floral filigree of her porcelain cup. The china rattled loudly when she set her teacup and saucer down to stand and formally introduce her wayward daughter to the five strangers in the sitting room.

Well, not strangers-relatives, distant ones. Although Adelina was not sure which was worse under the circumstances.

Only one extended his hand for her to take and as she tipped her head down, she caught a flash of an unruly smile and dark eyes filled with amusement. The man winked at her discreetly before bowing his head down over their hands in return. When he released her glove, the smile was gone but his amusement remained.

He turned to her mother, "Lady Trevelyan, as pleased as I am to finally see your daughter again, I find I am entirely distracted by your excellent tea service. Truly, I've not seen its equal in Minrathous."

Errant daughter forgotten, she turned to their guest and favored him with the full brunt of her delight, "My dear Dorian, you are too kind but I'm sure nothing can compare to the wonders of the mysterious Imperium."

Slipping down onto the end of the settee, jostling her sister Flora in the process, Adelina surreptitiously examined the other guests. Four gentlemen in all, and two ladies. One man bore a strong resemblance to Dorian-his father perhaps, or a much older brother. The women were turned out in a strange fashion that, while unfamiliar, still provoked envious glances from her sisters. None, except Dorian seemed at all pleased to be there.

Adelina thought he must be the only single man in the group by the predatory glint in her mother's eye. Trevelyan men had a fondness for hunting and her mother put them all to shame. The woman possessed the keen senses of a bloodhound when it came to sniffing out wealthy men of status and she did not need shotguns to capture her unwitting prey. Unfortunately, her talents were by and large wasted in Ostwick, where eligible bachelors were currently in short supply.

"Tell me, do you care for music?" she asked Dorian.

Before he could have the opportunity to answer, she nodded towards Flora, "My daughter Floralina sings beautifully."

Dorian inclined his head and smiled, perfect parts boyish charm and roguish appeal. It left Adelina with the distinct impression that only someone well versed in the arts of scheming matrons could produce a smile so calculated to charm one. In fact, it seemed like he was playing her mother more than she was playing him. No unwitting prey, this one.

"I think I can speak for my entire party when I say we would be delighted to witness such musical talent."

One of the women did not bother to hide her grimace as she rubbed a finger along the rim of her untouched teacup and then examined the intricate lace for grime. It was a motion that reminded Adelina of their housekeeper-a woman hellbent on eradicating all manner of dirt. Poor Mrs. Rutger would be horrified to see distrust in her skills from a guest.

Flora flushed prettily and turned to her, "Lena, would you play?"

In truth, she was not a very talented pianist. While technically proficient, she lacked real skill with musical instruments-and she had tried her hand at more than a few. There was always a missing element in her playing, a gap between what she wanted to hear and what her fingers could produce. But she was, if anything, an accurate player, and that was all that mattered when it came to an accompanist.

The rest of her sisters had inherited their mother's voice and never bothered to develop beyond basic proficiency on the piano. So it was alarming when their mother interjected again, "No, I think Coralina would love to accompany you instead."

Adelina was never partial to her mother's naming scheme but it was all the more ridiculous when she insisted on using everyone's full names when they were all together.

Meanwhile, Cora looked mortified, "I would much rather sing. Can't Lena play?"

"No, I think Adelina looks rather peaked. Let your dear sister catch her breath."

It was a tone that brooked no argument, not that they could protest any longer under the steely scrutiny of their guests. Adelina wondered if they were all distant cousins of her father, or only just a few of them. She hoped for the later, especially regarding the woman with the teacup.

Cora and Flora primly set their cups into delicate saucers and made their way over to the piano with all the enthusiasm of men marching towards the executioner. They rifled through the sheet music, attempted to prolong the inevitable while simultaneously searching out the simplest piece to perform. In a bid to divert attention from her increasingly flustered sisters, Adelina turned towards Dorian, who had moved to stand close to her.

"Do you play yourself?" she asked.

He smiled, looking very handsome while he did so, "I thank you for your consideration in asking, but my abilities as a musician flourish best without public display. Which is to say that I am dreadful."

"I'm sure you are being too modest." her mother interjected.

"Not at all Lady Trevelyan, I could refer you to several frustrated instructors if you doubt my sincerity."

Trapped into a corner with no flattering alternative, the woman merely smiled and deferred her attention to the woman seated closest to her. It was not received warmly.

"You've grown quite a bit since we last met." Dorian addressed Adelina, dropping his voice so that his words would not be heard by anyone beyond them. A part of her instructed that such a thing should leave her breathless and thrilling. Handsome men addressing her in (relative) privacy was not something that occurred on a regular basis. But despite the trappings of romance, his voice did not seem to hold any actual romantic intentions. All the better, really.

"Babies often do. It would be very strange if I had not." she replied, conspiratorially matching his volume.

He seemed delighted, "Ah yes, but you were a strange baby, from what I can recall."

Against her skirt, her left hand burned but she was still smiling, "Yes, from what I hear, I was frightfully red."

He laughed too loudly and drew the eyes of the entire room. By the piano, her sisters stopped shuffling through papers, terrified expressions as if he had caught them out in their much prolonged stalling.

Smothering her laugh, Adelina settled for a smirk in his direction and stood, "I believe I am feeling much recovered, perhaps a duet is in order."

Before her mother could insist that she still looked dreadfully flush, Dorian voiced his enthusiasm for the idea and then there was nothing her mother could say. It was a shame it had taken so long to stumble upon her mother's weakness. Perhaps the next few weeks would not be as terrible as she expected.


	7. The Interrogator and the Cleric

_The shabby homespun of her dress, soaked through with rain made a poor comparison to the fashionable array of pastel flounces spinning like parasols around the polished floors._

* * *

"You've already lost." Cassandra informed her over the edge of her book and Josephine scrutinized the board for a moment before asking, "How do you know?'

Cullen smiled, perhaps too smugly. Ruthless matches with Mia had destroyed his ability to win without arrogance, "I'm afraid she is right."

Sinking back into the chair, Josephine heaved a sigh, "This is why I prefer cards. This game…" she broke off to wave a hand over the board in disgust, "Is much too impersonal. Real strategy isn't about how many moves you can keep in your head."

Perhaps he should have let her win, he thought. Cassandra completely refused to play, saying she lacked the patience for it, and Solas rarely left his cabin during the day when the decks and parlors were full with people. Given Josephine's expression, he was certain he'd managed to alienate his one opponent away from the game. The loss was his entirely, he was terrible at cards.

"You were on your sixth move." Cassandra pointed out, flipping a page.

"No matter." Spirits recovered from her defeat, she leaned forward on her elbows and templed her fingers together over the table, ""We're due in Ostwick soon. There is still much to discuss."

They were in the ship's parlor, tucked away from the early morning socialites by a marble pillar and a potted fern. The room was massive, the ceiling ended two decks above and was frescoed with plump cherubs dancing over ocean waves. If it weren't for the ever perceptible pitch and roll of the hardwood beneath his feet, it would have been difficult to believe his mind when it reminded him that they were still on a ship, marble staircase notwithstanding. Why in Andraste's name did a ship need a marble staircase was beyond him.

Cassandra's eyebrow arched, "You're just trying to change the subject."

"Don't be ridiculous, I simply wanted to review the itinerary."

"Which will be revised as soon as we get any real information. We have no idea what awaits us in Ostwick."

"We have some idea." Cullen said, having cleared the table of the game board and its ivory pieces.

"Yes." Cassandra admitted, "Some. But much can change. I'd rather wait to make decisions until after I conduct my interviews."

"Interrogations is the more accurate term" Josephine corrected, cutting her eyes across the table at Cassandra before turning to Cullen, "Please try to keep her from stabbing anyone's personal belongings."

"That hardly ever happens." Cassandra said.

The ship horn bellowed out, rumbling through the clatter of teacups.

The three of them pressed against the gleaming brass rails, watching the approach of the shoreline with the rest of the crowd on the deck. Ostwick tumbled down the slopes of the forested foothills right up to the rocky shore. Red tiled roofs and plaster walls turned gold in the early morning sun clustered along the water's edge, growing larger and larger further up into the hills, where manors perched prettily amid the greenery. Overlooking it all stood a grand cathedral with a copper dome gone milky jadeite from the salt air. The ship was still far away and the entire scene was tiny and peaceful, looking like a cookie village he'd once seen in the shop window of a patisserie in Val Royeaux. He half expected someone to sprinkle sugar over the rooftops.

"How picturesque." Josephine said.

Cassandra hmphed.

Ostwick was all hills and the roads were narrow and rutted, crowded with shopfronts just opening for morning business. Their car was having a hard time of it, every pothole sending it into a violent jolt. Twice, the engine chugged and whined, threatening to stall on one of the steeper ascents. Cassandra looked about ready to put the vehicle out of its misery herself, if the roads did not beat her to it.

He was not far behind her. Every lurch sent a finger of pain through his temples, each clamping down harder than the last. It was insistent, an impatient hand growing tighter and tighter the longer he tried to ignore it. Cullen withdrew a vial from his vest pocket and emptied half the contents into his mouth, having done it now enough times not to gag anymore at the taste.

Cassandra watched him evenly, "Do you want to return to the hotel?"

"I do not wish to be coddled." he snapped peevishly and felt foolish halfway through for directing his frustration at her. He pinched the bridge of his nose, a tactile distraction from the rattling of his bones as the car bumbled over poor road.

"My apologies." he said, "But no. I would like to be useful if I can."

Cassandra simply nodded and then winced in irritation as the tailpipe backfire rang out like a shot.

Morning sunlight flickered through the birch boughs overhanging the road, a bright morse code stippled onto his coat. Cullen watched it dance over the tweed amid the shadows left by leaves swaying overhead. When he looked up, the bell tower was emerging from a thicket of chestnut trees, followed by a sloping rooftop buttressed by elaborate masonry curling around enormous panes of translucent glass that caught the light and cast it back in new colors.

The scene shifted, blurred, and he saw the shelled-out corpse of a building scorched black from high explosives. Outlines were set into what was left of the walls, some barely knee-high, dark shadow forms pressed against mortar. He knew with a terrible certainty what had left them. Skeletal, pock-marked stone clawed through the dust laden air and amid the ruins of human and stone alike, was the Chantry's statue of Andraste, untouched.

"Bastards." Lt. Hawke muttered beside him.

He closed his eyes for a long time and when he opened them again, Lothering's chantry and Carver Hawke receded away into shadow and memory where they belonged. A second longer and he realized the car had stopped.

The nave was almost empty save a scattering of early-rising parishioners in the wooden pews. They were reciting the Chant of Light, but the words were swallowed up into the vaulted ceilings, leaving only faint imprints of sound in the overwhelming quiet.

His footsteps echoed on the stone, and they faded just as quickly. The silence reminded him of home, of a dock and a lake and a village chantry much less grand. It was the silence of first snowfall, a world muffled in white.

A line of sisters and brothers appeared from the periphery in of the chancel to arrange themselves in the quire encircling the gilded statue of Andraste.

"That is her." Cassandra whispered, indicating one of the sisters at the front of the choir, a tawny woman with angular features and upturned eyes, "We will have to wait for them to finish."

They took a seat in the last pew just as the choir began to sing.

Somewhere in the scarred hillsides of Lothering, he had lost his faith. He wasn't sure if it was the last remnants of Lothering's faithful seared onto the chantry's crumbling walls, or some other grisly scene that silently cut the last fraying threads holding it in place. He didn't even realize it was missing until he had opened up his psalter, always kept in the breast pocket of his uniform, and felt the ragged hole where peace and acceptance used to be. For months, he still recited the Chant of Light from memory, from his psalter, substituting routine where belief used to be. He hoped more than believed it would suffice.

Music swelled up to the clerestory, transforming in the jeweled sunlight piercing through glass into one high, pure note held in the air. The dome captured it and amplified it until it rang out like struck crystal, resonating through stone and wood and bone until he felt his heart thrum with it. It felt like coming home again after a long absence-scraped knees, wind-tugged hair and Branson calling out to the rest of them to wait as he fell behind like always. Except, it was somehow more personal. Not like returning to a place in time but a person-the person he had been when his future was bright and shiny around the edges, a silver coin in his palm, a currency with limitless value.

But too soon it was over, the last voice dimming back into revered silence, taking with it the brief flicker of someone more substantial and leaving behind the man filled with nothing but threadbare hope and hollow motions.

Cassandra stood as the choir began emptying from the room and Cullen followed, the stiffness in his knees giving some indication that more time had passed than he thought.

"Do you think she will be willing to talk to you?" he asked her under his breath.

"She will if she cares for her sister."

Cullen frowned, "You mean to threaten her?'

His question earned him a searing look of derision and a haughty, clipped tone, "That is hardly necessary. People either wish to be helpful or wish to appear helpful to avoid scrutiny. The best way to protect her sister from our suspicion is to cooperate."

They intercepted the sister just as she passed by one of the slender stone pillars arching over the door leading from the apse.

"Excuse me, Sister Rosalina, might I have a moment of your time?"

The woman paused and as she turned towards them, Cassandra took the opportunity to slide a thumb under her lapel, flashing the silver of the all-seeing eye. The effect was near instantaneous on the other affirmed, who immediately averted their eyes and shuffled away from the woman among them who had been singled out. Finding herself abandoned, she fixed Cassandra with an imperious jut of her chin, "What is this regarding, Seeker?"

"Certain local events that took place almost twenty four years ago involving your family."

Wary trepidation fell away as she straightened, shoulders tense, a guarded expression shuttering away whatever flash of emotion preceded it, "I will do my best to help, but I was only twelve at the time. My knowledge is limited."

Cassandra merely inclined her head, steely and scrutinizing, "Is there a place we can discuss this in private?"

Green eyes flickered over him for a moment as if calculating what role he could possibly have here. Finally, she nodded, "Yes, perhaps the archives. Follow me."

She led them through corridors of the same white stone of the cathedral until they reached a cramped room turned labyrinth by the towering bookshelves stacked full with manuscripts and the cracked leather spines of aged tomes. At the corner was a large table, placed before a window so that sunlight spilled across yellow parchment. Sister Rosalina took a seat with her back to the window and gestured for them to sit in the chairs directly across.

"You are a cleric, is that correct?" Cassandra fingered the frail edge of a scroll with mute interest.

"Yes, that is right." Sister Rosalina answered, sounding warmer and less guarded, "I worked for some time with Elder Gertrude, she was a prolific mind in the study of ancient religious texts."

Cassandra nodded and added, "Your father's aunt."

"Yes...although, I had several other relations in the church as well. It was often said that the best place to find a Trevelyan was within these walls. Our family has always been very devout."

Not likely said anymore, Cullen thought. Sister Rosalina was the sole Trevelyan left in Ostwick's chantry. He studied her face discretely, wondering if it would hold any acknowledgement of the distance that had grown between her family and the local religious leadership. He found no sign, leaving him wondering if this assertion and the serene smile that accompanied it were calculated to impress just how very devout the entire family was.

Cassandra was sterner than usual, bristling with authoritative command as she left off with the parchment and straightened in her chair, "I am Cassandra Pentaghast and this is Cullen Rutherford, formerly of the Ferelden Expeditionary Force. We are here on behalf of the late Divine Justinia, investigating a connection between your youngest sister, Adelina Trevelyan, and a recent surge in terrorist activities."

Tawny skin paled against the cream and red of her habit, "Terrorism? Adelina would never-" Catlike, her eyes narrowed at them as fear gave way to anger, "If you've come to investigate all those ridiculous rumors, I'm afraid you've wasted your time."

"That is for us to decide." Cassandra replied, "Could you please recount, to the best of your knowledge, the events of your youngest sister's naming celebration?"

The anger vanished back behind the careful expression shielding her features. She suddenly looked much older, the severe cut of her cheekbones and the set of her mouth more at home on a face twice her age, "I was twelve at the time so I was not allowed to attend. I had no idea anything unusual happened until the next morning, but at the time, my parents were more concerned with the fact that our house guests had left in the middle of the night after they were blamed for the whole business."

"House guests?" Cullen ventured. There hadn't been any mention of that in the rumors Leliana's agents had gathered. Of course, those had all skewed into the wildly unbelievable. House guests were mundane compared to elven sorceresses and whatever other nonsense people could conjure up in their minds.

"Yes, some distant relatives of my father's from Tevinter. I didn't know the details, but they were discussing some sort of joint business venture. My father was furious over it falling through after."

Cassandra leaned forward, "You said they had been blamed?"

The seeker's focused attention seemed to discomfit her. Perhaps because of the two of them, Cassandra was the only one with any real authority and she wore it like one of her well-tailored suits.

Sister Rosalina hesitated before proceeding cautiously, "Yes. The teryn's first wife was explicit with her opinion regarding the...unconventional customs in Tevinter. She thought the whole thing was a tasteless prank and accused them as charlatans peddling parlor tricks and explosive powders."

He nodded. The opinion was hardly uncommon outside of the Imperium.

"What sort of business venture?" he asked, noting the lines furrowing at the corners of her mouth.

As intended, the new line of questioning left her more relaxed, "I'm afraid I wasn't privy to most of their dealings, but I believe it was something involving a seaside resort."

"Did you parents speak of the old woman?" Cassandra asked, switching back to dangerous territory so rapidly that, for a moment, the other woman did not think to resume her careful guard.

"Only after…"

Tension coiled through the room, and she was stiff-backed, looking momentarily like someone who had accidentally stepped off a cliff edge

Cassandra would not let her backpedal, pursuing the word ruthlessly, "After?"

Gone was the serene face of the devout sister, the imperious tilt of her chin. She recoiled away and stared down at the table sullenly, refusing to speak.

"After the first death?" Cassandra demanded, "The maid?"

Rather than be intimidated, the woman fixed a cold stare on them and said, "I think you should leave."

But Cassandra was tenacious, she stood up, her chair screeching over the floor as she leaned over the cleric's downcast head, "Henrietta Toubes, who somehow severed her spine on your family's estate."

Green eyes flashed up, "No one knew what happened. It could have been a wild animal."

Her words were well-worn and trite, a phrase she did not believe but repeated often enough that she did not have to think about it anymore. It was the first thing that sounded like a lie and by the triumphant gleam in Cassandra's eye, he knew she recognized it too.

"How was it that a child escaped this attack unscathed? Why was the body found so far away from the house?"

Sister Rosalina was no woman of weak will, but he was certain that Cassandra's brutal barrage of questioning was calculated to expose another weakness entirely. Temper flaring in response, she stood and shot back, "She was found by the creek where she had attempted to drown an infant merely for possessing a glowing hand. I do not know what stopped her, nor, Maker forgive me, do I find myself caring overmuch that malignant superstition was prevented. Now, you will excuse me."

She swept out of the room and Cassandra made no move to stop her.

"That went well." was all she said, looking pleased enough to indulge in the barest of smirks after the sound of footsteps faded completely, "Better than I expected."

She turned to him, "You have a knack for putting people at ease, like Leliana. I do not have that talent."

"Will you attempt to speak to her again?" Cullen asked. Privately he thought that anyone would put a person at ease compared to Cassandra when it came to interviews. Josephine's description was more accurate than he expected.

"Not me, but you perhaps. Leliana always had luck with seeking them out later and apologizing for my hostility. It made her seem like a sympathetic ear. You could do the same."

Cassandra left him to do just that, eager to drive back to the telegraph office and communicate with Leliana. She would send a carriage back for him-no more cars in Ostwick, they had learned their lesson.


	8. The Man Who is Lost

Cullen found himself all too quickly turned around in the corridors. Wherever he was, it was far from the living quarters of the affirmed-there was no one else around and no sounds penetrated through the thick stone arcades.

He came to a stop at the end of a large, square room with several thick cords extending up into the ceiling. Drawing closer, he found that the there was no ceiling where he expected one, the cords extended far up into the tower. A wooden staircase was set into the walls, circling high above and terminating into a flat wooden ceiling in which a large square had been cut so that the ropes could descend through to the bottom.

Well at least he had managed to find the bell tower. Cullen groaned, searching the room for an exit other than the one he'd just come through. Nothing. He cursed whatever architect had devised a maze in lieu of a church and made to turn around when there was a faint sound.

It was music, he realized. And it seemed to be coming from the ceiling.

"Lost are you?"

Cullen turned to find a short elf with choppy hair and a snub nose smiling up at him with a look that was the furthest thing from reassuring. She inspected him overtly from head to toe and then cackled gleefully.

"Yes…" he wondered what she found so amusing and then thought it was better not to ask. He just needed directions, "Could you-"

"This place is mad innit?" she interrupted him, "Like a dungeon. But for holy people."

That seemed to amuse her greatly and she laughed.

"I suppose…" he conceded reluctantly, brow furrowed, "Look, do you-"

"If this was a dungeon, I suppose that'd make Revered Mother Sourtits the...ah, word right on the tip of my tongue. Hate that. Like an itch."

He was fairly certain by this point that this woman was beyond all sense. Perhaps she too had been lost and this was his own fate-to wander the corridors raving to strangers.

"Gaoler!" she stopped scrunching up her nose with the imagined word itch and Cullen's limited amount of patience had run dry. He spoke before she could interrupt with more nonsense.

"Yes, wonderful. I'm looking for Sister Rosalina. Do you know where I might find her?"

"Rosalina huh?" the look she shot him was inscrutable, but he'd already given up on trying to understand the quicksilver expressions, "Lucky you, she's up in the bell tower."

A finger pointed up for good measure.

He frowned and his eyebrows drew together, "Why would she...are you certain?"

"Why would I lie about something stupid like that?" she demanded, angry now, "You just met me, you don't know spit. I say she's in the tower, she's in the tower."

If he didn't believe her before, he certainly didn't believe her now. But it was obvious that she would be absolutely no help at best and a continued nuisance at worst, which made the bell tower an appealing option. He glanced up at the square in the ceiling where sunlight poured through to leave a perfectly angled halo around the cables. It was very far up, she would probably lose interest and go away before he made it halfway.

"Thank you for your help."

Despite the flat delivery of his gratitude, she was grinning, "Right, best hurry. Lots of stairs."

Lots of stairs indeed. Wooden steps groaned beneath his feet but the railing was sturdy in his hand, if not incredibly dusty. As he climbed, the tinkling melody drifted down from the ceiling, delicate and lovely in little plinks, a tower turned music box.

He was more than halfway up and there was no more sign of the strange elf below but something propelled him on. Not the thought that the cleric would actually be up there, he was quite certain that was a complete fabrication. Curiosity perhaps. Or something of what he'd experienced in the cathedral-music bright in the air, curling around his ear like a gentle whisper.

A breeze whipped down from the opening to the bell chamber above and as he reached the final ascent, it whistled past him, tugging at his shirt collar. The music was louder now, but bereft of the amplifying echoes that had lent it such a strange, otherworldly quality. He followed it up into the bell chamber and immediately it cut off mid-note as he met a pair of startled green eyes.

Not Sister Rosalina, or any member of the clergy given the fine lace blouse and sensible linen skirt radiating out over the floor around her. Her hair was piled up in a rough approximation of fashionable but thick auburn masses had fallen out of the pins to curl against the creamy skin at her throat. She looked tousled and slightly dazed as if waking from a dream and it felt strangely too intimate, like he had walked in on her completely exposed. Maker take him, he was staring. Staring and fumbling out an apology and rubbing the back of his neck wishing he had never listened to that blasted woman in the first place.

He shifted his weight awkwardly, not sure if he should step fully up onto the landing or stay with one foot rooted on the last stair. In his indecision, he lurched forward clumsily, his foot making contact with-a shoe? A lady's heeled boot, now toppled over on the floor. He stared down at it, at the small leather buttons running up the side, with utter bafflement.

The woman however, looked horrified, springing up and reaching forward with a cry. Cullen realized then that he was stepping on a stack of papers like a complete oaf. He drew away quickly, hoping no damage had been done when almost immediately a terrible gust blew through the chamber from the open shutter.

In a burst of white, the papers flew everywhere.

One plastered itself against his face and pulling it away, Cullen saw the regularly spaced staves, penned in with musical notes.

At the center of the room, caught amidst the paper flurries, the woman was attempting to gather everything back up again. She clutched several crumpled sheets in her gloved hands and immediately Cullen moved to help, realizing the full impact of what he had inadvertently done.

Music sheets drifted down lazily above them, fluttering on every new breeze, making slow descents back to the wooden floor-which made it relatively easy to grab them back up. They were making short work of it until the wind pushed open again the shutter she had hastily closed. It clattered against the stone and cast the remaining music out into the sky like confetti.

"Hold these please."

Shoving her stack of paper towards him, she climbed up onto the ledge of the archway-bare feet visible as the wind kicked up her skirt, sending it twining around her pale ankles.

"You don't mean to-" he started forward as she clasped the joint of stone. Before he could say more, she had dropped down.

Was everyone absolutely mad in this place? He rushed over and peered down to see her blithely making her way along a flat strip of roof, snatching up papers clinging to the tiles. Relief clamped down on the hard jolt of his heart against his ribs-he had no desire to watch a woman plummet to her death. He quickly saw there was no cause for concern, she moved with a sort of grace melded into athleticism borne out of frequent practice. Why a woman would be so skilled in traversing rooftops, he had no idea. But given how strange his day had been thus far, he simply chalked it up to the fact that Ostwick was obviously a much stranger place than he had imagined.


End file.
